


Better Love, An Erroneous Plot Twist

by yami_no_bakura



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Cuts, Drabble, F/F, Implied Masturbation, Implied/Referenced Murder, Knifeplay, Light Angst, Masochism, Multi, Other, Stream of Consciousness, and with scissors instead of knives, except on herself, somewhere between selfcest and self-sabatoge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yami_no_bakura/pseuds/yami_no_bakura
Summary: It’s a gross and awful thing that she does— the girl in the mirror that leaves bloodstains in the sink.





	Better Love, An Erroneous Plot Twist

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the MARETU song, "Darling."
> 
> A stream-of-consciousness, bloody smut drabble. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Not beta read.

It’s a gross and awful thing that she does— the girl in the mirror that leaves blood stains in the sink. She leaves them everywhere: on the shower curtain, on her inner thigh, in her deepest crevices, in back of her throat.

Caked on her skin, a dazed, defenseless doppelganger stares at the wall, and lets her head loll. It’s in moments like these where their personalities blur: at the edge of consciousness, one brain overloaded with too many sensations for two fragments of a whole person.

It’s a pitifully weak thing she does— the girl lying in the tub dry-heaves with equal parts disgust and rapture when she becomes aware enough, in her comatose wonderland, of the scene she’s awoken to. The color, texture, and the heady synesthesia of scent and smell are akin to the comfort of a womb in the same way that passion is akin to filth. At the same time, it’s a skin-crawling, repulsive feeling; being made dirty and violated by her own toxic reaction to the world. 

The stinging, sparkling pains littering her upper thigh sing with the aftershocks of scissors carving through flesh. A massacre tonight, it seems— after the tenth mark, the tally marks devolve and eventually move somewhere where they won’t interfere with her shrine. Both forearms arms are buzzing intensely like a hivemind of bees beneath skin. It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying. 

Countless angry slashes, covered in drying, lukewarm juice; just shallow enough that her movement wouldn’t be too impaired. Her head is fluffy, and it’s not so much an ache as it is the burning of land that has been scorched dry, muted and far away. It’s like television static; like a pendulum between panic and paradise. It’s only after an indiscriminate epoch of the weak tranquility that comes with exhaustion, orgasm, and bloodloss that the guilt sets in.

Still, she’s too dizzy to be bothered. It’s better not to think. It’s not rare for her other self to indulge like this, then leave the mundane masochist to deal with the recovery time— the so-called “grief”. That’s her supposed role, and yet her head is blank, teetering on the edge of glee and regret. You can't become a romance novelist without a head full of delusions, but even Touko Fukawa can't convince herself that she's still innocent. 

Everything hurts, everything feels good, and _everything is her fault _.__

____

____

She supposes that you can’t break so many others without expecting to break yourself.


End file.
